


We've All Had Different Names

by Liadt



Category: Callan (TV), The Equalizer
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Mistaken Identity, Obscure and British Commentfest, obscure and british, obscure and british 2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-28
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-02-05 08:56:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1812655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liadt/pseuds/Liadt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A case of mistaken identity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We've All Had Different Names

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Obscure and British fanwork fest 2014, over on lj.  
> Prompt: The Equalizer/Callan; mistaken identity.

Robert McCall suddenly jolted awake. It was a very small noise - the kind of noise a regular Joe, who hadn’t worked for the CIA as a top agent, might sleep through. McCall had worked for them and without his sense for imminent danger, he’d have been killed long ago. Swinging his legs out of bed, he crossed over to a panel on his bedroom wall. He lightly touched it and it slide back to reveal a cache of firearms, he picked out a gun and moved silently to the door. He waited there, listening to the sounds of someone going through his belongings. When the footsteps came close to the door, he flung it open, gripped the intruder around the neck with his arm, and used an elbow to turn the light on. The intruder was a small, slight man, dressed all in black, ideal for burglary, except for his grey, flat cap. McCall span him around to see who had broken in.

“Put your hands in the air or I’ll shoot,” ordered McCall. Despite having the upper hand, McCall took a few steps back from the cringing thief. The smell coming off the man was foul. McCall used his free hand to cover his nose.

The intruder’s eyes, already wide in fear, became even wider, if that was possible with out them popping out. “It’s me, Lonely, Mr Callan. I never thought I’d see you here. I’m sorry to disturb you. I wouldn’t have broken in if I knew this was your drum. It’s very nice - I couldn’t see you sticking to the shopkeeper lark, not a tough man like you.”

McCall’s face was an unreadable mask: there was no flicker of recognition or disbelief, in reaction, to the intruder’s words. “Callan? You’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

“Of course, whatever you say Mr Cal-er-McCall, I won‘t tell anyone. We’ve all had different names haven’t we?” Lonely gave a servile bob and his tone was knowing.

“I don’t know who this Callan is, but I assure you I don’t associate with low life scum like yourself.”

Lonely looked offended. “Mr Cal-er-Mister, don’t talk like that, I mean not posh, but calling me scum -remember the Scrubs? I thought we were mates.”

McCall sighed. “I’m Robert McCall; I have always talked as you say ‘posh’. If my son wasn't in such a deep sleep he’d have burst out of his room to tell you who I am.”

“Son? Toddler is he?”

“Hardly, he’s at college.”

“Gawd, you ain’t Mr Callan are you? I'd have noticed if he'd got a bird up the duff, back when we went out on jobs together. You don’t half look like him - like two peas in a pod. I’m sorry I woke you up. You see, your double he gave me Krugerands as a wedding present, but my wife nicked them. It was her dream to go to America, kept nagging me, I’d only been here a month and she upped and left me. I can’t live off air, so I’ve had to go back to thieving.”

McCall tried not to roll his eyes - Lonely was a pathetic specimen of humanity, his usual attitude to criminals didn't seem appropriate. He stepped over to a sideboard and took a wallet out of a drawer. “Here,” he said, taking some notes out of the wallet, "Take this, get your life back on track, and for heaven’s sake have a bath."

“Thank you, thank you, Mr,” said Lonely, tugging at his cap in gratitude. He thought the man would call either the police or belt him, not let him go with money in his pocket. “Er, where's the front door?”

“Over here.” McCall went and let Lonely out.

After he had gone, McCall went to the open window; Lonely had used it to gain access to the apartment. He paused with his hands on the window. “Oh Lonely, you great nit, didn’t you think it was barmy a nubile, young bird wanting to marry you?” he said to himself, his voice less refined, with noticeable traces of a lower-middleclass London accent. “I’d better not close the window - I’d forgotten how long the niff of pure vintage Lonely takes to disappear.”


End file.
